


The Pleasure and the Pang

by samslostshoe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fallen Angels, Fallen Castiel, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Human Castiel, M/M, Post Season/Series 08 Finale, Post Season/Series Finale, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-12 11:43:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samslostshoe/pseuds/samslostshoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A post-sacrifice fic.<br/>Castiel has fallen. He must learn to be human and find his fallen brothers and sisters. Luckily, the Winchesters are always there to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Angelic Minds

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my lovely beta, Maizie.
> 
> Inspired by:  
>  **On Being Human**  
>  _by C. S. Lewis_  
> 
>
>> Angelic minds, they say, by simple intelligence  
> Behold the Forms of nature. They discern  
> Unerringly the Archtypes, all the verities  
> Which mortals lack or indirectly learn.  
> Transparent in primordial truth, unvarying,  
> Pure Earthness and right Stonehood from their clear,  
> High eminence are seen; unveiled, the seminal  
> Huge Principles appear.
>> 
>> The Tree-ness of the tree they know-the meaning of  
> Arboreal life, how from earth's salty lap  
> The solar beam uplifts it; all the holiness  
> Enacted by leaves' fall and rising sap;
>> 
>> But never an angel knows the knife-edged severance  
> Of sun from shadow where the trees begin,  
> The blessed cool at every pore caressing us  
> -An angel has no skin.
>> 
>> They see the Form of Air; but mortals breathing it  
> Drink the whole summer down into the breast.  
> The lavish pinks, the field new-mown, the ravishing  
> Sea-smells, the wood-fire smoke that whispers Rest.  
> The tremor on the rippled pool of memory  
> That from each smell in widening circles goes,  
> The pleasure and the pang --can angels measure it?  
> An angel has no nose.
>> 
>> The nourishing of life, and how it flourishes  
> On death, and why, they utterly know; but not  
> The hill-born, earthy spring, the dark cold bilberries.  
> The ripe peach from the southern wall still hot  
> Full-bellied tankards foamy-topped, the delicate  
> Half-lyric lamb, a new loaf's billowy curves,  
> Nor porridge, nor the tingling taste of oranges.  
> —An angel has no nerves.
>> 
>> Far richer they! I know the senses' witchery  
> Guards us like air, from heavens too big to see;  
> Imminent death to man that barb'd sublimity  
> And dazzling edge of beauty unsheathed would be.  
> Yet here, within this tiny, charmed interior,  
> This parlour of the brain, their Maker shares  
> With living men some secrets in a privacy  
> Forever ours, not theirs.
> 
>  

Sorrow.  
Despair.  
Loss.  
These are the first things Castiel feels as a human. The wind tousles his hair and plays with the collar of his coat as he stares hazily at the sky, eyes glazed, mouth slack. It is beautiful, in a way, the fire raining from the sky. The fire that is not fire, but the falling forms of his brothers and sisters as they are torn apart and made raw and new.  
The wind ghosts over his face, making it prickle. Cas, finding this odd, reaches up to touch the uncomfortable patches, surprised when his fingers come back damp. _Tears_ , he thinks. He is crying.  
 _So this is what being human feels like. Somehow, I cannot understand how Anna preferred this._  
Castiel closes his eyes and lets the sorrow rear up in him like a wave, feeling it build up inside him like a tsunami, growing and cresting and falling only to be replaced by another and another. He revels in the true humanness of this. Nothing could be more definitively mortal. Or at least, that is what he seems to have learned in his time with Sam and Dean.  
Castiel lowers himself to the ground, sitting with his legs crossed. He is weary. It is a sensation he has not felt for years, not since the days when he was nearly human, when Lucifer still roamed the earth. His self-control beaten down by the exhaustion, he allows the surge of wretched sadness to overtake him, breaking down the dam and flooding from him. His body rocks back and forth with sobs, interlaced with equal guilt and grief. His face is wet and itchy and salty and he can do nothing but press his face into the ground and smell the sweet, bitter tang of the very solid, inescapable earth beneath him.

✠ ✠ ✠

When Castiel wakes, he does not open his eyes. Instead, he lies still and listens to the odd thrumming sound that is now a part of his being: his heartbeat. It has a restful, languid beat, sluggishly pushing blood through his veins. Of course, Jimmy had had a heartbeat, but Castiel had never paid much attention to it; when this body had merely been his vessel, its heartbeat had not hinged on Castiel’s very existence. He is hyper aware of its gentle pulse now.  
Judging by the reddish glow on the inside of his eyelids, it is now early morning. Castiel rolls over and opens his eyes, his pupils rapidly reducing in size as the light from the pale sun hits them. He blinks, uncomfortable. He supposes he should raise himself from the ground and go about devising his next move, but cannot seem to rally the will to do so. He would much rather lay in the cool grass and listen to the sounds around him.  
One bird calls out in a neighboring tree, and it disturbs Castiel that he can no longer fathom the meaning behind the soft trill. He used to be able to understand the languages of all his father’s creatures, and now...  
Castiel sighs. He supposes this is how Dean must feel, so limited by his human senses.  
 _Dean._  
Struck by a sudden resolve to act, Castiel pushes himself off the ground, tottering a little at the rapid motion. Human bodies are so clumsy. He wonders, vaguely, if the brothers had managed to shut the gates. And then, hit with sudden realization, he feels his heart clench painfully. Naomi had been truthful when she had revealed that there was no way to close heaven forever; this meant that all of what she said must have been true. If Sam truly had completed the third trial, he would be dead. Castiel hopes, selfishly, that he had failed. His affection for the Winchesters had not abated, despite his change in nature.  
He crashes through the thin woods he has awoken in, now desperate to find a way to reach the Winchesters. It is strange, moving so slowly, being so limited by time and space. Castiel is already beginning to realize how very limiting being human is.  
He loses track of how long he walks, the hours blending together in a blur of greenery and sweat and aching feet. It is surprising to him, then, when he breaks through the edge of the trees and finds himself standing on the side of a highway. He leaps back when a car speeds by.  
Hesitantly, he walks up to the very edge of the concrete. Thinking back to hours spent in a motel room watching daytime tv, he sticks his arm out with his thumb pointing upwards. Hitchhiking, he believes it’s called. The object is to attract the attention of a passing driver, and, if that driver is compliant, “hitch a ride” to a chosen destination.  
After twelve minutes, Castiel’s arm is beginning to ache. It has been nearly twenty before a car pulls up beside him, and Castiel jumps back hastily, lowering his arm with relief. The car’s window rolls down, and a woman’s head pops out, pale skin and brown eyes and blonde hair, eyeing him suspiciously.  
“You need a ride?” she drawls, the slight, twangy lilt of her voice jarring to his ears.  
“Yes,” he replies, and then adds, “if you do not mind.”  
She runs her eyes over him, in his ripped trench coat and generally soiled garb. “Jesus, you sleep in the woods?”  
“Yes,” he repeats, raising his hands slightly in a helpless gesture.  
She sighs, pushing the passenger-side door open. “Get in.”  
He obliges, shutting the door with a firm snap.  
“Where’re you headed?” she asks as she restarts the car.  
“I do not know, that depends on where I am.”  
“You’re in Hastings, Nebraska. Jesus man, how drunk were you last night?”  
“I was—,” Castiel pauses, remembering that in order to get what they want, they lie, and alters his original intent, “quite drunk.”  
She twists her mouth pensively. “I’m on my way to Kansas. You going that-a-way?”  
“Yes. I would prefer to go to Lebanon, if that is not too much trouble.”  
“Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll pass through it.”  
“Thank you.”  
Eyes on the road, she nods in acknowledgement. “I’m Leslie Manns, by the way.”  
“Castiel.”  
She quirks an eyebrow at him. “Just Castiel? They don’t have surnames where you come from?”  
“No, they do not.”  
“Alright then,” she chuckles uncomfortably.  
After riding in silence for a few moment, Castiel breaks the silence with a request. Leslie obliges.

✠ ✠ ✠

Leslie has the radio on, and she hums along to it, tapping her hands on the wheel in time to the beat. Castiel watches the blurred surroundings pass by, not speaking, merely observing. Tree. Tree. Sign. Tree. And then suddenly, something catches his attention.  
“Stop!” he yells, rather loudly, startling Leslie, who swerves violently into the shoulder. Castiel all but throws himself out of the car, desperate to reach the auburn-haired figure on the ground. If his suspicions are correct...  
He turns her over, hands grasping her face. “Can you hear me?” he asks urgently.  
Her eyelids draw apart sleepily, her wide brown eyes blinking up at him in wonder and relief. “Castiel?”  
He sighs gratefully. “Ananchel.”  
“Castiel, what is happening? Why—,” she breaks off, cringing in pain. Castiel notices that her left arm is bent at an unnatural angle.  
“We have fallen.” he says, simply, gathering her up in his arms.  
“How?” she asks, her voice muffled by Castiel’s trench coat.  
“I...I will explain later. Rest now.”  
“What the hell, man?” Leslie asks in disbelief as Castiel places Ananchel gently in the back seat and slides in next to her.  
“This is my sister,” is the only explanation he offers. “We must take her with us.”  
When she looks at him skeptically, he adds, “Please.” He is surprised by the amount of desperation in his voice. Leslie sighs and restarts the car, pulling back onto the road.  
Castiel passes the rest of the ride cradling his sister, whispering soothing nonsense into her hair, and cursing his humanity for preventing his ability to ease her suffering.

 


	2. Simple Intelligence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to my beta, Maizie, she was a huge help on this chapter.

Dean’s head is beginning to ache as he holds it in his hands, keeping his eyes fixed on his brother’s near-motionless form, concentrating on the gentle rise and fall of his chest. He blinks sleepily, thinking back to a few hours ago, watching the angels fall with Sam, half-dead, in his arms. He had been worried about Cas, true, but he prioritized. He’d loaded Sam, groaning and half-conscious, into the backseat of the Impala, and sped back to the bunker. It was the only place that made sense.  
Kevin’s expression had turned from relieved to worried and scared when Dean dragged Sam into the batcave. He’d cleaned his brother’s wounds and patched Sam up as best he could, but it wasn’t looking good. Sam had lost so much blood, and Dean was worried that he would need a transfusion. That would mean Dean would have to check him into a hospital, which would require a backstory and fake IDs, and it would be an extended visit; ultimately too risky.  
So he sat and dozed and worried. And he sits still, trying, as he did throughout the night, not to fall asleep. He thinks of Cas, hoping he’s alright, remembering the burning figures of the host of heaven as they fell from the sky. The fire had seared his eyes, the screams mixing with his own desperate shouts for Castiel. Castiel, who was always there when Dean needed him. Castiel, who, when at last he was asking for Dean’s help, Dean had no idea where to find him.  
The buzzing of Dean’s cell in his pocket jerks him out of his drowse, and quicker than he thought it was physically possible, he has it out of his jeans and pressed to his ear.  
“Hello?” he says, his voice raspy from dehydration and lack of use.  
A crackle of static answers him, along with a barely discernable syllable: “Dean?”  
“Cas!” Dean all but shouts, the knot in his chest loosening a little. “Cas, where are you, man? I’ve been worried sick!”  
“I am in Nebraska.”  
This brings him up short. “You’re where? Cas, what the hell is going on?”  
“Dean, I...it's difficult to explain." There is a surprising fragility in this statement.  
"Dammit, Cas, I—," Dean starts to say, not sure if he is hung to complain it apologize, but Cas cuts him off firmly.  
"Dean, I will explain up my return. I am on my way to the Men of Letters' bunker. I trust I will find you there?"  
"Yeah, we'll be here. But how—,"  
"I have, er, 'hitched a ride,' as I believe it's called," Cas says, testing out his new vocabulary in an almost tentative tone.  
"Alright Cas. Listen—," he begins, as the line goes dead. He sighs and flips his phone shut, exhaling the rest of his sentence.  
"Watch yourself."

✠ ✠ ✠

Kevin relieves him forty-five minutes later, insisting that he rest.  
“Dean, you’ve been awake all night. Sam’ll be fine, I’ll look out for him,” Kevin insists, his hand on Dean’s shoulder.  
When Dean shows no signs of movement, Kevin tries to push him out of the chair, and though he exerts about as much force as a four-year-old girl, Dean gets the message. Reluctantly, he heads toward his bedroom. He’s unconscious as soon as he hits the bed.  
He is woken by Kevin an hour or so later. “Dean, your phone has been ringing,” Kevin says, shaking Dean’s shoulder.  
“Shit,” Dean curses, “for how long?”  
He doesn’t give Kevin a chance to answer, yanking the phone out of his pocket and pressing it to his ear. “Cas?”  
“Dean?” the voice on the other end is tinny, as if coming from a payphone.  
“Cas, thank God, where are you?”  
“I am a few miles from the...er...’batcave,’” Cas says, hesitantly using Dean’s slang term for the bunker, “at a gas station called Shell. Why would one call a gas station shell, Dean? It has nothing to do with the sea.”  
Dean finds himself laughing, to his surprise, partially out of bone-crushing relief at Cas’s safety. “I don’t know, man. I’m gonna come and get you, okay?”  
“Yes, that is agreeable,” Cas says, and Dean thinks he must be smiling on the other end of the line. Dean’s about to hang up when Cas speaks again. “Dean, I have experienced a slight change of circumstances.”  
“A slight change of...Cas, what do you mean?”  
Cas hesitates, and Dean can hear his breath huff out in a sigh. “It will be better for me to explain in person. It will all be clear eventually.”  
Dean murmurs in assent and once again moves to disconnect the call, when Cas speaks up again.  
“Dean?”  
“Yeah, Cas?”  
“Thank you.”  
“Always happy to help,” Dean snarks, and snaps the phone shut with a smirk on his face.  
It takes him less than ten minutes to reach the nearby Shell station, going 10 over the speed limit the whole time. His heart leaps when he catches sight of Cas, and then sinks as he sees the state of him: ripped, muddy clothes, mussed hair riddled with little brambles and debris. But at least he is safe.  
He blinks confusedly when he registers that Castiel is not alone; he has his arm drawn protectively around a young woman, who appears to be in a lot of pain, judging by the way Cas is gently rocking her.  
He parks the Impala and nearly leaps out, hastening to Cas and the girl. He grips Cas’s unoccupied arm tightly.  
“Jesus, man, I’m glad you’re okay,” he says, and then, to clarify, “Are you okay?”  
“Physically, I am intact. Ananchel, on the other hand...” Cas trails off, gesturing towards the girl in his arms.  
“A...Ananchel?” Dean asks, the name foreign on his tongue. “She’s another angel?”  
“No. Ananchel is another human. She is no more an angel than I anymore,” Cas responds sadly, his humanity apparent in the display of emotion. “She is human, and she is in pain. I believe her arm is broken, Dean.”  
Suddenly, the girl, Ananchel, speaks in a voice deeper than most, “It feels broken.”  
Dean starts. Given her motionless demeanor, he had nearly forgotten she wasn’t an inanimate object.  
“Here, lemme look,” he says, reaching for her arm, which she offers readily, almost defiantly, sticking her chin out and staring up into his eyes with her own hazel ones. She winces when he brushes his fingers gently over her maimed limb, examining it with an expertise gained from countless similar injuries. If he had a penny for every time he had broken a bone...well, he might have about 15 cents.  
“Yeah,” he confirms, “definitely broken. Dammit.”  
“What is it, Dean?” Cas asks, his voice grave.  
“We’ll have to take her to the hospital. Damn, I was hoping to avoid that. That means she’ll need a fake ID. Give me a little while. Till then, I can put it in a splint.” He sighs. “C’mon,” he gestures to the Impala, “get in.”  
Ananchel breaks free from Cas’s grip, sliding into the backseat and lying down wearily, shifting to accommodate her injury. Castiel sits shotgun, next to Dean. He smiles when he enters the car, and when Dean quirks his eyebrow questioningly, Cas simply says, “I have missed this car.”

✠ ✠ ✠

“There you go,” Dean says, tightening the bandage that holds Ananchel’s new splint. It had taken longer than he’d thought. Cas, watching over his shoulder, had made an aggressively protective movement every time Ananchel so much as winced, and when she cried out Cas made to pull Dean’s hands off of her. Dean had been unable to find an anesthetic to treat her with before attempting to splint her broken arm, so Ananchel had taken the full force of the pain. She’d handled it very well, biting down on her lip to repress sounds of uncomfort.  
As Ananchel pulls her arm out of his grasp wearily, Dean jumps at a sudden hot burst of breath on the back of his neck as Cas lets out a relieved sigh. Turning, Dean finds himself no more than two inches from the former angel’s face, and it makes him laugh, remembering years-old chastisement about personal space. When Castiel cocks his head confusedly, Dean just smiles and gathers him into a rough, brief hug. Holding him at arms-length, he says, “It’s good to have you back, man. But you really need a shower. You smell like piss and dirt.”  
“Where should I...” Castiel trails off, gesturing helplessly down at his ragged appearance.  
“Right,” Dean chuckles. Well, there’re a few spare bedrooms.”  
When Dean gives the two fallen angels their choice of bedrooms, Ananchel picks a small one in a secluded section of the bunker, where she immediately collapses on the bed and requests that she be left alone. Cas favors a sparsely furnished but decently-sized room a mere door down from Dean’s. Dean leaves Cas to shower, heading back to Sammy’s bedroom to check up on him.  
Kevin is sitting in the seat beside the bed, quietly reading, but he looks up when Dean comes in, hastily closing his book. Dean catches a glimpse of the title: Catcher in the Rye.  
“How’s he doing?” Dean asks, reaching forward to check Sam’s pulse at his neck.  
“Not great,” Kevin grimaces, tapping his fingers nervously on the arm of the chair. “Dean, I’m no doctor, but I think he needs a blood transfusion. I mean, he lost a lot of blood treating Crowley.”  
Crowley.  
Dean had absolutely no idea what had happened to Crowley. They’d left him in that abandoned church, nearly human but still confined in the Devil’s Trap by his inherently demonic nature. Dean had figured some demon would find him eventually.  
Dean sighs, and nods resignedly. “Yeah, I was starting to think so. Ananchel needs a cast anyway.”  
Kevin blinks confusedly. “Ananchel?”  
Dean suddenly remembers that Kevin doesn’t even know that Cas has returned. “Cas is back,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck a bit uncomfortably, “and he brought a friend. Or a sibling, I guess.”  
Kevin shakes his head a bit before asking, “And the angels? What happened to them?”  
Dean sighs again. He’d been doing a lot of that lately. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to push it, both of them seem kind of...fragile.”  
Kevin accepts this with no further probing.

✠ ✠ ✠

Dean makes burgers for dinner, remembering Castiel’s affinity for them. Castiel wanders into the kitchen while Dean is making them, wearing the borrowed tee and pajama pants that Dean had laid out for him, hair wet and skin scrubbed pink. The look of delight on Castiel’s face when he sees the burger makes Dean smile. At least he can do something to raise Cas’ spirits.  
The three of them eat together in silence, Dean, Cas, and Kevin, each caught up in his own thoughts. Kevin reads his book under the table. Castiel seems intent on his burger, and Dean’s eyes rarely leave Cas. He remembers the conversation they had a few months ago, when Cas had told Dean that he might kill himself. Dean thinks that seeing every single one of his brothers and sisters fall from their home may not have helped any.  
The night creeps up on them quickly, and when Kevin announces that he is going to bed, Dean thinks that it’s about time for him to turn in as well. Cas follows, reaching his own door and bidding Dean goodnight.  
Dean lies awake for a long time, thinking. Thinking of Kevin and all that he has given up to to help them. Thinking of Cas and all he had sacrificed fighting for peace. Thinking of Sammy, lying still in his room because of all he had lost to save the world. And they had failed.  
Dean passes his hand over his eyes wearily, when he hears a sound at his door. His hand jerks underneath his pillow out of habit, reaching for the ever-present gun he has always kept there just in case, and is unnerved for a second as his hand gropes at nothing but flannel sheets. He forgot that ever since moving into the bunker, he’d stopped sleeping with weapons under his pillow. This was a place where he had convinced himself that he was safe.  
The noise is repeated, a gentle knock, this time accompanied by a tentative whisper of, “Dean?”  
Dean relaxes, slumping back into his decidedly unarmed pillows. “Yeah, come in.”  
Cas obliges, cracking the door open just enough to slip in, and shutting it behind him with one hand. His figure is only visible by the little light that comes through the small window, and in its weak illumination, he seems to be glowing from the inside. It saddens Dean to think of him that way, but he also feels his heart squeeze a little in his chest, and his breath hitches. He chooses to ignore it.  
“Yeah, Cas. What is it?”  
Castiel hesitates, then comes and sits on the edge of Dean’s bed. “I believe I owe you an explanation.”  
Dean throws off the covers and sits on top of them next to Cas, looking at him sideways. He doesn’t say anything. Sometimes, he’s learned, it’s best to just let people spit it out.  
Cas takes a deep, shaky breath, and begins. “It was Metatron who betrayed us.”  
As Cas explains all that had transpired, how Naomi had been right, her death, Metatron’s betrayal, and his spell, Dean feels his heart growing heavier. Cas’s voice becomes more and more unstable.  
“It was all my fault,” Cas concludes, and his voice breaks as the tears brim over, streaking down his cheeks like quicksilver. He makes a noise like a wounded animal, forcing more words out. “Dean, if not for me he never could have...I was so blinded...all my fault...”  
Dean does the only thing he can think to do. He wraps his arms tightly around the grieving man, rocking him back and forth like a child, running his hands soothingly up and down his back, and murmuring assurances.  
“Shh, Cas, wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know. You were trying to do a good thing. Cas...Cas...it’s okay, it’s alright. Shh.” These and other comforts are whispered reassuringly into Cas’s hair.  
Castiel grips the back of Dean’s shirt tightly, sobbing brokenly into his shoulder. How long this goes on Dean does not know, but eventually, Cas’s tears become inaudible, and the two are left holding each other in the heavy, oppressive silence. Another indeterminate length of time passes, and Cas eventually lifts his head and disentangles himself from Dean’s embrace, rubbing his eyes.  
“May I stay here,” Cas begins, voice raw, “please?” And the plaintive pleading in his voice is too much, Dean can’t refuse him.  
Castiel buries himself in the warm sheets on the opposite side of the queen bed, facing away from Dean. Dean, closing his eyes, listens to Cas’s breathing. He drifts slowly into sleep listening to the gentle rise and fall of his friend’s breath, the reassuring comfort that Cas is there, right beside him.


	3. The Verities Which Mortals Lack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as usual to my beta, Maizie! Sorry it's taken so long for an update, I was dealing with finals and general end-of-year stuff. BUT, it is now summer, and I shall be updating more frequently (but no promises). Enjoy!

Waking is like rising from a murky swamp. It clings to him with greedy fingers, grasp weakening by increments that grow larger with the passing minute. As the murky darkness that has hold of his brain recedes, Sam becomes aware that he is lying in a bed, not the cold, hard ground that was his last memory of sensation, his back pressed against the Impala, his brother’s arms gripping him tightly, and his eyes burning because of the fire raining from heaven.  
Sam can hear gentle humming. It is not a tune he recognizes, sweet and flowing, rising and falling and swelling. It calms him down to his very soul. In his state of blissful half-consciousness, he doesn’t care where the melody comes from, only that it doesn’t stop.  
He makes a contented noise deep in his throat, and the humming ceases abruptly. Perturbed, Sam jerks his eyes open with a groan of “No!”  
Before him, sitting with legs crossed at the foot of his bed, is a beautiful woman. Her long, auburn hair is in disarray, some lying over her heart-shaped, dimpled face. Her mouth, dark and lovely, is parted slightly in surprise. Across her small nose is a spray of freckles, and her eyes, dark green rimmed in brown, are open wide, searching Sam’s own face curiously.  
The one imperfection that marrs her form is her left arm, which appears to have been splinted. She holds it gingerly against her body, as though she is altogether unaccustomed to pain.  
“Are you awake?” she asks, cocking her head curiously, stretching out one arm, her long fingers splaying as she rests them gently on the blankets above his calf.  
Sam blinks in assent, but she does not seem to understand.  
“Yes,” he croaks, lifting himself onto his elbows, raising his tired body from the soft comfort of the bed.  
The world lurches violently, and Sam drops back onto the mattress. He squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the world to stop spinning around him. The woman’s grip tightens briefly on his leg. He sighs.  
 _Must be the blood loss._  
And with that thought, the memories come flooding back: the exhausting, bloody, arduous hours spent trying to cure Crowley, the fight with Abbadon, the King of Hell’s startling revelation of his innate human desire for love, and Dean, bursting in at the last moment to save him, as usual.  
But in saving him, Dean had doomed them all. And it was all Sam’s fault. He hadn’t had the guts to go through with it. It would have been so simple, trading his own life to save the world. What does one life matter compared to seven billion?  
But worst of all, he had let Dean down again. The sin he seemed doomed to repeat eternally until it destroyed him. He would never be good enough.  
 _Let it go, brother,_ he thinks, recalling Dean’s words. And for the moment, Sam does, pressing the palms of his heels to his eyes resignedly, letting out a gust of air. The world has stopped swaying when he opens his eyes.  
The girl is still staring at him, in a way so intense that it reminds him of the way Cas eyes Dean. A suspicion begins to grow in a corner of his mind.  
He thrusts out his hand for the woman to shake, saying, in a voice shaky from little use, “I’m Sam. Sam Winchester.”  
The auburn-haired woman trips lightly off the foot of his bed, circling around to Sam’s right side to grasp his hand. “I know that,” she says, shaking her head slightly and smiling almost impishly, “Everyone knows the Winchesters.”  
 _Is she...?_  
“I’m Ananchel.”  
Yes, that was an angel’s name if he’d ever heard one. It sounded almost like ‘an angel,’ actually. But he wanted to confirm.  
“Are you...an angel?”  
Ananchel’s smile dims, becoming a hard, flat line that hangs sourly in the pale canvas of her face. “Was. I was an angel. No one is an angel anymore.”  
Sam remembers. Ananchel’s hand is still in his own, and he applies gently pressure, aiming for a soothing reassurance. Of what, he does not know.  
“I’m sorry,” he says, and the words feel empty and hollow. “I know how it feels to lose family.”  
She eyes him sadly, her thumb rubbing slow circles on the back of his hand. “They are not gone, Sam. Only changed. And missing.”  
Sam nods wearily, resting his head on his pillows and trying not to close his eyes. He is worried of what he will see if he allows himself to fall asleep. He trails his hand over his forehead, feeling its moisture. His hair is damp, soaked in his own sweat, and yet he feels cold, despite being swathed in a down comforter. He shivers, blinks sleepily, shakes his head. He must not slip into unconsciousness.  
He feels Ananchel’s slender hands probing his face, checking his temperature, his pulse, brushing his hair back from his face. And all the time she continues talking, as if he is the only confidante she has in the world. He finds that he was strangely comfortable with this woman, this fallen angel, whom he has only just met. Yet he doesn’t mind.  
“The most terrifying thing, Sam,” Ananchel says in hushed tones as she tucks his lank hair behind his ear, “is not knowing, is not being able to verify that they’re okay. When you’re an angel, you can feel all others of your kind. We are—were—all God’s soldiers. On some level, we were all part of the same consciousness. We were aware of each other. And now, without that, I am all by myself in my mind. It’s...terrifyingly lonely.” She sucks a deep breath breath through her teeth, clenched in pain. Sam doesn’t know if it comes from her arm or from something deeper.  
Sam reaches up and grasps her hands, which were now mechanically stroking at his hairline, obsessively pushing stray hairs off his forehead. He brings them gently down to rest on his chest, his own hands covering hers in a way that he hopes is comforting. She blinks in surprise, but then holds his gaze determinedly. They stay that way for a time, but Sam can’t seem to measure how long it is exactly; it seems as though they are not part of time, as though they’re separate from it. Even though Ananchel is no longer celestial, Sam feels as though there is something about her, something that seems to set her apart from any true human he has ever met.  
After a few minutes—or hours, for all that he knows—Sam finally speaks. “Why are you here, Ana?” he asks, softly.  
She accepts the nickname without comment, but looks puzzled as she answers, “I told you, my sibling and I have—,”  
“No, no, no,” Sam interrupts hastily, grinning awkwardly, “I mean here, in my room. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re here, but...” he trails off, letting a trace of the grin hang on his features.  
“Oh,” Ana sounds hesitant for the first time since Sam has met her, as she says, almost ashamedly, “I couldn’t sleep.” She says it in the manner of a small child admitting a wrongdoing.  
Sam chuckles a little at her demeanor, relinquishing her hands, and scoots over. The movement makes him dizzy, and he closes his eyes for a second, squeezing the bridge of his nose. When he opens his eyes, Ana is cocking her head at him, and Sam is so forcefully reminded of her brother that he lets out a loud bark of laughter.  
“What?” Ana asks confusedly, and Sam waves his hand dismissively.  
“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “Here,” he pats the sliver of bed that his movement has left free, “lay down.”  
Ana doesn’t hesitate; she lifts up the sheets and slides under gracefully, curling up to Sam like she is desperate for human contact. And once Sam thinks about it, he thinks that she must be. Newly human but truly ancient, Ananchel is a confusing mix of childish innocence, adult gravitas, and millennia of knowledge.  
Ana places her head gently in the crook of Sam’s neck, and Sam wraps his arm around her. This should feel odd, as they have only just met, but Sam feels strangely protective of this curious creature, who is both fragile and seemingly tenacious. He smiles into her hair, whispering, “Just close your eyes. Try not to think about anything. Just be.”  
Ana smiles a little, and he can feel it against the warm skin of his neck. And in this private, warm little corner of the world, Sam coaxes a fallen angel gently to sleep.


	4. Transparent in Primordial Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Maizie, my beta, as usual.  
> Also, a note on pronunciation: "Ananchel" is pronounced "awe-non-shell" and "Ana" is pronounced "awe-naw"

Dean blinks blearily, his eyes finding the ceiling. He must have rolled over onto his back in the night. He feels warm, content. It takes him a few seconds to realize that there are warm legs twined with his own, and an arm flung over his chest. Cas had snuggled up and held on tight, fingers gingerly gripping the soft cotton of Dean’s tee shirt.  
Dean looks down at Cas, whose head is tucked under his chin. Cas looks so peaceful, so content. He is still wearing Dean’s spare pajamas, and Dean does not allow himself to think that he likes the look of Cas in his clothes. Dean shifts his arm, wrapping it around Cas almost unconsciously. Cas lets out a little puff of breath and Dean can feel its warmth on his collar bone. Dean smiles a little, blinking blearily as he comes fully into consciousness. And with sudden clarity, he realizes that he and Cas share a similar problem.  
Dean jerks out of bed so fast that his momentum, and their interwoven limbs, pulls Cas out with him. Cas ends up with his upper half sprawled on the floor, legs still tangled in the sheets like a cocoon.  
Cas shakes his head confusedly at the sudden call to consciousness. “Dean, what—,” Cas slurs, eyes finding Dean’s and locking his gaze. Their blue was piercing, as though Cas was looking into his very soul. Dean had always felt like that when Cas looked at him. He’d thought it had something to do with the guy being an angel, but maybe it’s just part of who Cas is.  
Dean grabs the towel that’s slung over the back of his chair, holding it casually in front of the problematic area of his anatomy. “Morning, Cas,” he says, voice light and teasing. “Sleep well?”  
Cas cocks his head curiously as he answers, “Yes, quite well. Although I seem to have been enmeshed by the bedclothes.” His nimble hands go to work at the tangles of fabric encasing his legs as he speaks.  
Dean can’t help but think about what else those hands can do.  
“Well!” he exclaims, caught off-guard by his own thoughts. “You have fun with that. I’m going to take a shower.”  
Dean takes a long, cold shower. The frigid water soothes him, cleanses him. He lets any and all confusing thoughts regarding the fallen angel he left behind in his bed be rinsed out of his head and swirl down the drain along with the shampoo.  
He walks into the kitchen to find Cas and Kevin sitting at the table together, not speaking. Kevin still has his nose in his book. Dean is forcibly reminded that the last time these two met face-to-face, Cas had gripped Kevin by the front of his shirt and vehemently reminded him of his God-given duties.  
Cas is still wearing Dean’s pajamas. It is this, coupled with the fact that when Dean looks in the cereal box that Cas and Kevin have already partaken of, that prompts Dean to declare, “We’re going shopping.”  
Cas squints up at him. “Why?”  
Dean slaps him on the back. “Cas, buddy, you can’t keep wearing the same outfit forever. Especially not after you slept in the woods with it.”  
Cas smiles, and its the first time Dean has seen that smile in a long time. He catches himself gazing at Castiel’s mouth long after the smile has faded.  
Coming suddenly into awareness of what he’s doing, Dean stutters out, “Plus, we need food. We can’t keep eating stale cereal forever.”  
Castiel nods. “Ananchel should accompany us,” he adds, turning back to his food. “She is as much in need of new attire as I.”  
Dean is startled by Cas’s thoughtfulness. He had almost forgotten about Castiel’s sister entirely.  
“Yeah,” he agrees, “her too.”  
But when Cas goes to collect his sister, he returns to Dean, pure panic etched into his features. “She’s not—,” he gasps, out of breath. Dean suddenly thinks that maybe Cas’s super-strength had nothing to do with his vessel’s fitness. With his angelic powers stripped away, Cas is just a slightly out-of shape thirty-some-year-old man. Cas gasps for air before he manages to finish his sentence. “Ana’s not in her room.”  
“Cas, Cas,” Dean soothes, gripping the shorter man’s shoulders, “Cas, I’m sure she’s fine. There’s not much trouble she can get into around here, okay?”  
Cas’s eyes are wide and panicky, his eyes darting all around the room.  
Dean grasps the sides of Cas’s face, forcing Cas to meet his eyes. “Okay?”  
Cas calms, eyes locked with Dean’s. “Okay,” he agrees, “okay.”  
They eventually find her in Sam’s room, sleeping peacefully in his arms. Dean quirks an eyebrow at Cas. _When did that happen?_  
Cas shakes his head and goes to wake his sister.

✠ ✠ ✠

The shopping trip is relatively uneventful. Cas insists on buying outfits nearly identical to the one he’s always worn, black slacks and white button-ups, but Dean convinces him to buy a couple of pairs of jeans and some sensible, black and white tee shirts. Dean can’t be held responsible for Cas’s sense of style.  
Ana opts for plaid shirts and tight jeans. She dresses much more casually than any angel Dean has ever met. It takes her an inordinate amount of time in the dressing rooms, however, as she tries to maneuver around her broken arm.  
They hit a grocery store next. Dean is surprised when Cas includes pie in their purchase.  
“Dude,” he says as Cas places one cherry and two pecan in their shopping cart, “I didn’t know you liked pie.”  
“You do,” Cas says, simply, and Dean smiles radiantly at him.  
Dean spends the better part of the afternoon making fake IDs for Cas and Ana, now known as Cas Engels, 38, and Ana Engels, 34, siblings from Wichita, Kansas, she a librarian, he a theological scholar. That was Dean’s little joke to himself.  
Cas’s voice cuts into his intense focus as he is putting the finishing touches on Ana’s ID. “Dean.”  
Dean looks up. Cas is sitting across from him, his hands folded pensively on the table. He looks up and intones, gravely, “I have come to a decision. I need to find the others. My siblings.”  
Dean looks up at him, setting down his work. “Yeah?” he asks, looking Cas directly in the eyes. “Why’s that?”  
“It is,” Cas runs his fingers through his hair agitatedly, not dropping Dean’s gaze, “a feeling. I owe it to them, Dean. It is entirely due to my rash actions that they fell. And they do not have as much experience with the human world as I, they are relatively helpless in that regard. I’m not suggesting that we bring them all here, like Ananchel. Only that we ‘check up’ on them. Make sure they are safe. I don’t know why I feel this way. It just seems like an immutable truth of my human life.”  
Dean nods. “I’d feel the same way,” he asserts with an empathetic half-smile. “Hell, I do feel the same way. Any sibling of yours is a friend of mine, I guess.”  
“Uriel?” Cas asks, smiling, “Gabriel? Lucifer?”  
“We don’t like to talk about them,” Dean says smilingly. This is the first time he’s heard Cas make a joke. One that isn’t in Enochian, anyway.  
“Don’t worry, Cas,” Dean says, reaching across the table to lay a reassuring hand on Cas’s shoulder. “We’ll find them.”


	5. Seminal Huge Principles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as ever to my beta Maizie, although she did diddly-squat on this chapter because she's off at camp or some such thing.  
> Super short chapter, partly because I'm lazy, partly because the next one is going to be longer and I am spending the time I saved writing this chapter prepping myself mentally for the next one.  
> Some more Sam x Ananchel, enjoy.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._  
The incessant electronic blips that monitor Sam’s heartbeat are irritating. Ana mutters to herself, rubbing her temples; her head is beginning to hurt. On one hand, the dull ache that is quickly escalating into throbbing pain feels unpleasant, but Ana can’t help but wonder at the pure feeling of it. She had experienced sharp, external pain when she’d broken her arm, but this is unlike that entirely; it’s a deep, internal pain, borne not of injury but of thought.  
As her thoughts stray to her arm, her unharmed hand follows suit, tracing the whorls and exploring the rough texture of her new cast. She’d chosen a dark blue. It’s oddly calming, running her fingers across the uneven surface. It would help mend her “broken wing,” or so the doctor had told her. The elder Winchester, Dean, had laughed a little at the irony of it, though he tried to stifle it behind his hand. Cas had rolled his eyes and sighed. Ana assumed that her brother had grown used to the man’s often-tactless brand of humor.  
Her eyes flick up to the body lying in the bed across from where she is sitting. Sam is dressed all in white, his face peaceful despite its nest of tubes. His eyes flicker gently as she rouses herself from her chair and ghosts over to him. Ana is light on her feet, making virtually no noise on the linoleum floor. She takes his hand, resting their entwined fingers on the scratchy, hospital blankets.  
Looking down on Sam, she finds it hard to believe that he was ever possessed by Lucifer. Sam seems so pure, surrounded as he is by white. He looks almost angelic.  
Ananchel shocks herself by laughing. It’s the first time she can remember doing so. Her laugh is deep and full, nearly a bark. Ana likes it. It feels powerful.  
Sam stirs, his lips curving upwards slightly at the corners when he hears her. Ana had been relieved to know that the transfusion had gone well. She, Dean, and Castiel had waited anxiously in the waiting room, Ana pacing, Dean sitting with his head in his hands, and Castiel standing stoically behind him. That was something Ananchel had noticed about their relationship; Cas acts, in nearly every sense of the word, as Dean’s guardian angel. He is constantly hovering, as though ready to leap upon anything that threatens Dean and snuff it out. Dean regards him carefully, as if he is re-discovering who he is around his friend. He’s all gentle touches and reassuring half-smiles, wrapped up in gruff words of encouragement.  
When the doctor had, at last, emerged and announced that Sam would pull through, Dean had let out a great sigh of relief and demanded to see him. Ana and Cas accompanied him, and they were relieved to see Sam with some amount of color in his cheeks. He’d need a couple of days in the hospital to recover, but he would be perfectly fine, they were told. Ana thought that she had never felt so relieved. It was odd, her attachment to Sam. She’d only known him for two days, but the affection she felt for him was enormous. She was protective of him, though she could not do much in the way of actual defense of his person; without her angelic abilities, she was a weak creature with little knowledge of the world in which she now lived.  
Ana sighs, passing her hand carefully over Sam’s eyes. _Maybe if Castiel can be Dean’s guardian angel, I can be yours,_ she thinks, smiling down at Sam’s prone form. _I’ll watch over you. You are what is important now._  
Struck with a sudden inspiration, she gets to her knees, hands clasped before her on the bed. She may not have visited earth for the last few hundred years, but she doubts that the mechanics of this particular activity have changed much.  
 _Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, she starts._ Her prayer is full of wishes for health and happiness for the Winchesters, particularly Sam, and requests to keep the demons at bay. _And, Father, I beg of you, if we are now bound to this earth, give my brothers and sisters and I the strength to survive as humans and to prosper. And let our search for them be fruitful and swift. Amen._  
She has no way of knowing if this would reach her Father’s ears, nor, if it did, whether or not he would care. But she likes to think, unlikely as it was, that he is still listening. She returns to the chair across from Sam’s bed. Closing her eyes, she lets the monotony of beeps that monitors Sam’s heartbeat carry her into a deep sleep.


	6. The Tree-ness of the Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as ever to my lovely Beta, even though she was very hover-y over this chapter. I promise her (and all of you) that there will be fluffy stuff coming up in the next chapter!

_Operation Angel_ went off much more easily than Dean could have hoped. They looked for stories of strange appearances of men and women; they were found in the woods, emerging, sodden, from bodies of water, wandering into stores, looking around dazedly. The reports all shared similar observations of the strangers’ seeming unfamiliarity with common objects and customs, such as introducing oneself with a handshake, or a towel being placed on someone who it sopping wet from the river. The fallen angel in question had grabbed the towel and thrown it back in the giver’s face, shouting, “I do not need your petty human trinkets!”  
Dean had burst out laughing when he read that, and Castiel had rolled his eyes, saying, “Colopatiron was always a little...rambunctious.”  
Many of the fallen angels had found foster families of a sort, people kind enough to take them in and care for them. Those were the easy cases, Dean took care of most of them in the first try, the day after they checked Sam into the hospital. Sam and Kevin handled the families, the real humans, and Castiel talked to as many of his brothers and sisters as he could. He gave them the short version of the truth: they had been betrayed, their grace stolen by a spell, and he would find a way to fix it.  
Kevin grows tired around eleven and turned in for the night, but Dean and Cas work on, not giving up and retiring until almost two in the morning. Cas asks if he can sleep with Dean again, and Dean agrees. Dean tells himself that he’s just helping a friend out. That’s all it is, just helping Cas adjust to being human.  
Cas is a surprisingly cuddly human. He curls right up next to Dean, his warm back pressing up against Dean’s own. Dean can feel his spine as Cas curls into the fetal position.  
They are both so tired that they fall asleep within seconds of climbing beneath the covers.

✠ ✠ ✠

Dean wakes suddenly, with a feeling that something is terribly wrong. It takes him a few moments of blearily attempting to place the reason for his irrational disquiet. The room is black and silent, revealing none of the secrets that the dark holds. Dean gradually becomes aware of the coolness of the bed all around them, where Cas’s form is conspicuously lacking.  
Dean is seized by a panic; his heart rate accelerates as he throws off the covers and, yanking the door open roughly, proceeds to tear the bunker apart looking for Cas. The wall of newspaper clippings is undisturbed, just as they left it, and no lights have been turned on. Everything is as if Cas had never been there at all.  
Dean does not allow himself to think about the night in the crypt, the night Castiel had left. The betrayal, the hurt and confusion and anger that Dean had felt now lay latent deep inside him, but he can feel their eagerness to return to the surface as his dread mounts.  
As a last resort, Dean checks outside. The cool air is refreshing, hitting his sweaty skin with almost shocking suddenness, calming him down. He breathes in deeply, filling his lungs to bursting point with the brisk crispness, and slowly exhales. His eyes flick around, and in doing so he notices a figure perched in the branches of a nearby tree. It’s dark, and the only illumination Dean has is the moonlight, but he’s almost certain that it’s Cas.  
Dean, feeling dizzy with relief, walks to the foot of the tree and looks up. Cas hasn’t noticed him yet, and for a moment, Dean just looks at him; Cas is staring straight at the moon, and his eyes catch the moonlight in such a way that they almost glow. His dark hair is highlighted by the gentle white beams, creating a little halo of pale light. Cas looks, Dean thinks sadly, angelic.  
“Cas,” he calls softly, voice scratchy as it often is when he wakes up. He clears his throat.  
“Dean,” Cas replies simply. He sounds surprised but not displeased.  
“What’s up?” Dean asks, and can’t help but add, “Besides you, of course.”  
Castiel looks down at him scathingly, but his eyes are alight with merriment. _Because just laughing at the damn joke would be too easy,_ Dean thinks affectionately, rolling his eyes.  
“I was merely thinking,” Cas answers evenly, his eyes drawn back to the heavens. Dean braces his foot against the trunk.  
“Hang on, I’m coming up,” he says, and scales the trunk easily, situating himself in the crook of the tree next to Cas’s thick branch. Dean’s surprised that the tree can hold two grown men without protestation.  
“What were you thinking about?” he asks, recalling Castiel’s attention.  
Cas turns to look at him, glowing blue eyes filled with a strange mixture of wonder and a sort of bitter regret. “Heaven,” Cas responds, simply, and then continues when Dean does not react, “It is so much more lovely than you know, Dean. On your brief trip you traveled only in your own memories and the personal heaven of your friend Ash. But there is so much you did not witness. The real Garden of Eden, for example, is much more beautiful than the Cleveland Botanical gardens. Heaven is unimaginably extensive. with a personal version for every good soul who has ever passed on. Even I, with my eons of existence, have not been able to explore it all.”  
Cas looks down at his hands, which are twining together over and over, restlessly, in his lap. “I miss it, Dean.” He says this almost sheepishly, as though it is something to be ashamed of.  
Dean remains silent for awhile, watching as Cas begins to pick at a loose thread on the pair of Dean’s pajamas he’s wearing. Finally, he asks, “Cas, why are you out here, man?”  
“I,” Cas hesitates, as though wondering how much to say, “was having difficulty sleeping.”  
“Because?” Dean prompts.  
“My dreams were less than pleasant.”  
Dean searches his face worriedly, but Cas’s features appear impassive, his expression guarded. Dean reaches out and touches the back of Cas’s hand in what he hopes is a reassuring way, saying, “Cas, what were you dreaming about?”  
Cas starts a little at the unexpected contact, and then turns his hand over to grip Dean’s wrist so that their palms press together. Cas’s calloused fingers press against the soft skin on the underside of Dean’s arm. Cas seems intensely focused on their hands as he speaks.  
“I dreamt of the night the angels fell,” he begins, his voice low and serious. “It was different from the reality of it. I could hear them, my brothers and sisters, as they fell. They shouted for me to help them as they fell to Earth. I told them that I couldn’t, that it wasn’t within my power. They stopped asking then, and everything was silent and dark. All I could hear was my heartbeat, but it didn’t sound like a normal pulse; all I heard when it beat was _shame, shame, shame_.”  
Dean feels a drop of hot liquid fall onto the back of his hand; Cas is crying. Dean reaches out, unthinkingly, and pulls Cas to him forcefully, gripping him in a tight hug. Cas returns the gesture, his hands snaking up Dean’s back to grip his shoulders. They wait, together, for Cas’s tears to subside.  
“Cas,” Dean says by and by, “you don’t think you can fix it, do you?”  
Cas nods, his hair brushing Dean’s neck, “I don’t see how,” he admits, and Dean can feel the vibration of Cas’s deep-timbred voice in his own chest at the words. “We are all cut off from heaven. And if he has taken the grace from all of us—,”  
Dean cuts Cas off, pulling back reluctantly so he can hold Cas’s gaze. “I’ve been thinking about that, Cas, and I think you’re wrong. I mean, from what you told me, it was a spell, right? The only grace he actually cut of of someone is you,” Dean was getting excited now, his words spilling over one another in his haste to share with Castiel the theory that had been rolling around in his head, “So I was thinking, maybe if we can get your grace back, we can restore the fallen angels. Cas, I think we can get you back your wings, buddy!”  
Cas’s eyes widen. He looks for a moment as though he would never move again, as though he will stay forever immobile in his state of shock and wonder, eyes wide and shining, lips slightly parted in a gentle surprise, and Dean thinks that Cas has never looked more beautiful. But then his face splits in a wide, toothy grin and Dean finds himself proved wrong.  
“Dean!” Cas exclaims, throwing his arms up in surprise and throwing himself suddenly off-balance. He teeters dangerously on his bough, and Dean’s hands shoot out protectively, gripping his shoulders in a desperate attempt to save Cas from a very ironic death.  
Cas is laughing, throwing his head back and howling, with shock and relief and hope and Dean can’t help but join in as he pulls Cas into another rough embrace. They laugh and laugh until their bellies hurt and their eyes are streaming with tears. Dean has never heard Cas really let go like this, and he finds that he likes the way Cas’s eyes crinkle and his nose scrunches, shoulders turning in a little as if attempting to contain the audible outburst of joy. They hold each other until the giggles subside and the tears dry, until they both sit silently in the tree under the lightening sky.  
At last, Dean broaches the silence. “Cas,” he asks, voice cracking a little, voice accented with an undertone of barely contained mirth, “You wanna head in?”  
Cas pulls back to gaze into his eyes for a brief moment, before his eyes flit back to the sky, where the very tip of a golden sun can be seen, peeking up above the horizon. “I think,” Cas replies, voice soft and content, “if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to watch the sunrise.”  
Dean smiles and takes his hand, turning to face the slowly pinkening sky. And together, the broken man and his fallen angel watch the world wake.


	7. At Every Pore Caressing Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Maizie as usual, but really all she did in this chapter was have feels. Seriously. She made like one edit. (But I still love her).  
> This is my first time writing smut, so let me know how it is! Any and all feedback is appreciated.

Sam, upon his return, finds the bunker greatly changed. Not much has changed about it physically, except for the _Operation Angel_ headquarters that now dominate half of the dining room table and one wall; all of this space is filled with amassed newspaper clippings and lists of names and potential residences for fallen angels. Many of them, Dean explains, managed to find “host families” of a sort. For those that haven’t, Dean is working on finding safe places for them to stay. They’d put up a few at Bobby’s house, and Garth is on high alert for safe houses to house the rest. Dean, Cas, and Kevin are encouraging them over the phone to adapt to normal human life: get jobs, a hobby, new clothes, and whatever else they needed to make themselves comfortable in their new, less-than-celestial lives. And though many of them seem hesitant to acquiesce to their request, they are comforted by the reassurances of a plan to return them to heaven being in progress.  
The biggest changes, however, are unobtrusive. They come in the way Dean and Cas have begun to act around each other. Sam will sometimes catch them smiling at one another for no reason. Dean now makes two cups of coffee in the morning, a drink which Cas has developed a strange affinity for. Cas will occasionally rest his head on Dean’s shoulder while Dean’s cooking. And Sam will smile to himself, a private little acknowledgment of what he has always known, and what they have yet to know, but are one step closer to realizing. Were Bobby still alive, he’d owe Sam twenty bucks.  
Sam, naturally, wants to help with _Operation Angel_ , but Dean vehemently insist that he take the night off.  
“Don’t want you fainting on us again, Sleeping Beauty,” Dean jokes as he forces him to sit on the couch and relax, chucking TV remote at him. “Why don’t you expose Ana to something really nerdy? Might be good for her.” He nips back into the dining room as Ana moves from her position leaning in the doorway. Sam sighs, flicking through their meager DVD collection and selecting Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. He joins Ana on the couch, putting an arm around her and placing a kiss on her head. She snuggles into him, but her attention is rapt on the FBI warning now flashing across the screen.  
Sam tunes the movie out, preferring to focus on Ana instead. He studies the delicacy of her hands, the veins a ghostly blue in the pale skin, and the way the skin between her eyebrows wrinkles when she concentrates.  
Ana pays him little heed. She seems fascinated by the exploits of the boy wizard now displayed in front of them. She’ll occasionally lean over to him, asking clarifying questions such as, “How did they manage to domesticate owls? They are notoriously violent creatures when controlled,” and “Don’t they know that real magic does not need a stick to wave?” Sam answers the first few to the best of his ability, but eventually just tells her that it’s fiction, and they can do whatever the hell they want, no matter if it’s implausible.  
When the movie’s over, Sam can still hear murmuring from the next room, and he yearns to join the three conspirators, but knows Dean will only force him out again. Instead, he asks Ana, “So, any other stuff about humans you’d like to know?”  
Ana quirks an eyebrow at him mischievously, and then looks down, taking his hand. “There is,” she says softly, stroking his fingers, “one other thing I’ve not been exposed to...”  
Sam is bewildered for a moment, until her soft lips meet his. He can feel her smile as he realizes, and kisses her back with a similar level of joy. He runs his hands through her silky hair, savoring the feeling of their bodies pressed together, before he pulls away. “Not here,” he whispers, pulling her further into the bunker, to his room. He turns to face her, closing the door behind her back as he presses his body against hers. She runs a few degrees warmer than normal people, and her body heat is his body heat, their warmth mixing and combining as they do the same. She pulls his shirt over his head with surprising dexterity, placing a gentle hand in the middle of his chest to push him lightly onto the bed. She keeps eye contact with him as she undoes the button and fly of his jeans, pushing them slowly to his ankles and leaving him to kick them off. He grabs her hand and pulls her back to him, her wiry body pressed against his once more. He loses himself in her lips as he, in turn, removes her clothes. And soon they are exposed completely to one another, and each accepts the other for their physical inadequacies of one sort or another, as they have already done with the intangible ones.  
When they come together, Sam groans, placing a line of kisses on her collarbone. She caresses his skin all over, as though she is trying to map every single part of him. They move with each other, the push and pull of their bodies like a tide, a smooth, cohesive rhythm. Sam savors every noise she makes, gasps and groans and exclamations. She is like fire, overpowering and intense, and it is not long until he finishes, just seconds before she does also, slumping onto his bare, heaving chest.  
After a few seconds’ silence, Ana whispers, “Thank you. That was enlightening.” Sam smiles into her hair, drawing small circles on the exposed skin of her back as he holds her in his arms. She falls asleep first, leaving Sam to his thoughts in the darkness and the quiet. His mind drifts back to long ago, lying in a similar position in the appartment he’d shared with Jess at Stanford. He thinks about Jess, about losing her, about the hole that had been carved out of his heart. It had never really felt full after that day, not even in the year he’d spent with Amelia. But now, as Sam contemplates his once incomplete heart, he finds that it’s whole. The part carved out by Jess’ death has been filled up. It’s not made of the original material, but something different that fits just as well. It isn’t that Jess doesn’t have a place in his heart, only that the space he has for her doesn’t hurt anymore. He is much too full of joy for there to be any place for grief. And he thinks that he must owe it all to the woman in his arms.  
“Thank you,” he whispers to her sleeping form in the darkness, though he knows she won’t hear him. He just wants the world to know, is all. He wants it to know that Sam Winchester has been saved.


	8. The Pleasure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as usual to Maizie, although I don't think she actually made edits on this chapter. It's okay, though, it's nice that she's there for moral support. I'm starting to get really nervous about writing this fic, because after this one there are only two more chapters.

Castiel doesn’t know when, exactly, he fell in love with Dean Winchester. He thinks, however, that “falling in love” is an entirely inaccurate term. It implies that the process is swift and has a permanent destination. Castiel, however, would contend that love is much more like sinking. It’s slow, and almost peaceful. You float in different directions, not quite sure of where you will end up, but content with allowing the currents to pull you to where you will settle.

In any case, he thinks comparing love to anything that can be fatal is a little too morbid. Love is rejuvenating, and invigorating, and elating. And infuriating. But not fatal.

He wonders if he fell in love with Dean on that day they spent baking, trying to figure out how to make pie crust and getting flour all over the floor of the kitchen. Dean had insisted on feeding him the first bite of their successful cherry pie. Sam had made puking noises, and Dean threw a batter-covered spoon at him. Ana caught it and licked it off. Kevin had used the distraction to steal a piece.

Or perhaps it was when Dean taught him to shave, handling the razor with uncharacteristic gentility. He had cupped the back of Cas’s neck while he traced gentle strokes down Cas’s jaw and neck. And when he nicked Cas’s skin, though it drew no blood, he apologized profusely.

Or maybe it’s the little things: Dean’s soft breathing at night when they sleep beside each other, the way he knows _exactly_ how Cas likes his coffee, the way he doesn’t speak down to Cas even when he can’t understands basic human things.

Cas wonders, vaguely, whether he has always been in love with Dean. Maybe that was why he was so different from the other angels, and he just couldn’t process it with his limited angelic feelings. Now that he has access to the full spectrum of human emotion, he is able to feel it at last.

Dean is, has been, and always will be his anchor. Now he just needs to figure out how to tell him.

 

✠ ✠ ✠

 

One night, in late summer, Dean takes him to a pub. They spend the evening getting pleasantly drunk and playing pool, and when Dean drapes himself around Cas while teaching him how to hold the cue, Cas certainly has no objection.

They stumble home around one in the morning, having had the foresight to walk. Dean slings his arm around Cas as they approach the bunker.

“Cas,” he says, sounding remarkably lucid despite having had two beers and three tequila shots, “I’m really glad you’re here.”

Cas turns his face to look at Dean, and Dean’s smiling at him, small and warm and genuine. And Cas cannot resist any longer.

They’re nearly to the door, and it’s the perfect surface to shove Dean up against and kiss him. Dean’s surprise manifests itself as defense, shoving Cas roughly away. But Cas doesn’t have time to feel the rejection, because Dean is just as quickly grasping the front of his shirt and pulling Cas back towards him, crushing their lips together. There is something desperate about it, as if Dean is a drowning man and Cas is oxygen. Cas has never kissed anyone like this before, not Daphne or even Meg. Their mouths move together seamlessly, effortlessly. Their kisses are wet and hot, and Cas can taste the alcohol on Dean’s breath and feel the lust rolling off his skin in waves. Dean’s tongue flicks across his bottom lip and Cas moans quietly, not caring how undignified it sounds, not caring that he is falling to pieces under Dean’s touch. He doesn’t want this to ever stop.

“Look,” a voice says from behind them, cool and condescending, with an English lilt, “I hate to interrupt, but I’ve got something rather important to discuss with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The kiss in this chapter was inspired by [this](http://this-is-sams-lost-shoe.tumblr.com/post/59658730971/actual-spoilers-long-ago-i-saved-an) lovely gifset.


	9. The Pang

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second-to-last chapter! Excited?  
> Muchas gracias to Maizie, she was a giant help on this chapter.  
> Also, two warnings in advance:  
> -I skip a huge portion of the action in this chapter. This is because I am not a very good action writer, and I thought that what the chapter needed to focus on was the emotional stuff, not the details of "the plan."  
> -Sorry about feels for Sam/Ana and Dean/Cas shippers. Just so sorry.

Sam is shaken rudely from sleep by a rough grip. “Sammy,” Dean says, breath reeking of booze. “There’s something you’re gonna want to see.”

Sam and Ana stumble into the dining room behind Dean to behold a very peculiar sight: Kevin, sitting at the head of the table, furiously glowering at the debonair, demi-demonic, possibly-former King of Hell seated at the other end.

Cas is sitting at one of the chairs in the middle, looking uncomfortable, like a child at a family dinner, caught in a fight between Mommy and Daddy. He’s shuffling his feet and staring into his mug of coffee. His face brightens considerably when Dean sits beside him, and he pushes a second mug into Dean’s hands.

_They’re sobering up,_ Sam thinks. _This must be serious._

Though how could it be anything else, considering the parties involved.

“Crowley,” Sam acknowledges warily, nodding in his direction. He and Ana take chairs opposite their respective siblings. Sam and Dean exchange a terse look, Cas and Ana a grave and tired one. Kevin hasn’t removed his eyes from Crowley, face drawn and mouth pinched.

“That’s a little off-putting,” Crowley comments, gesturing towards him.

“Tough,” Kevin says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Oh, yes, good,” Crowley encourages, “very intimidating.”

“Look, Crowley, enough fucking around,” Dean says, tone severe but carefully measured. He’s trying to be a diplomat. Sam knows it’s not exactly his strong point. He decides to take it from here.

“Crowley,” Sam says patiently, “I assume this isn’t just a friendly visit.”

“Hardly,” Crowley says, mouth twisting downward disdainfully. “You are very low on my list of appropriate social calls. Sadly, though, after you injected me with holy blood and left me for the vultures, that list has grown progressively shorter.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asks, glancing around the table. Ana is laser-focused on Crowley, and Sam can see her mind working furiously to dissect his words. Dean and Cas seem to be having a silent, telepathic exchange, and Kevin’s deathly glower has eased to an attentive scowl.

“Well,” Crowley sighs, pouting, “it seems I’ve been overthrown.”

“Overthrown?” Sam asks, assuming that Crowley will elaborate.

Well, you know what they say about assuming.

“Usurped, Moose,” Crowley says, by way of explanation, “ousted, deposed, supplanted, dethroned.”

“If I’d wanted a thesaurus entry I’d have asked for one,” Sam says. “You’re in no position to be difficult.”

“How would you have any idea what kind of position I’m in, Moose?” Crowley asks, smirking, “You have no idea the juicy gossip I’ve got for you.”

“Then why don’t you tell us?” Dean growls, half-rising.

“Dean,” Cas warns, placing his hand over Dean’s.

Dean sits back down.

“Aren’t they adorable?” Crowley calls, conversationally, down the table to Kevin.

Kevin just glares.

“Fine,” Crowley huffs, “gather around for storytime, children.” He adjusts his tie before beginning.

“Well, as I assume we are all aware, Samantha here shot me full of his magic blood, but failed to complete the task, and then dropped me like a hot potato when his brother turned up. And so I was left there, stuck in limbo between human and demon. At that point, I was mostly human, and entirely tied down. To a chair, that is. And let me tell you, a collar is a bitch to get out of.

“And imagine how surprised I was when, three days later, I escaped captivity only to find that I was no longer King of Hell. I mean, the injustice of it! To have been stripped of my demonic nature and my throne to boot! It’s just unfair.”

“Who did the throne-stripping?” Dean interjects.

“Yeah,” Sam says, “who’s the new king?”

“Queen,” Crowley says, eyes gleaming malignantly, “Queen.”

“Abaddon,” Cas intones gravely.

“Very good, my little angel,” Crowley says fondly, and the covers his mouth as if he’s accidentally let slip an unspeakably foul word. “Oh, excuse me, should I say ‘my little human’? Because, to return to our little tale, as it turned out, not only had the hierarchy of hell been overturned, so had the hierarchy of heaven. All the angels expelled from heaven, imagine that! It boggles the mind.

“Now, I, of course, decided that I must know everything there was to know about this little escapade. It did take some digging, and I’ve been living like an absolute vagabond,” Crowley grumbles, gesturing to his suit, which, now that he mentions it, is a little faded, not quite as dapper as usual. “But I’ve done it. And oh, wait until you hear what I’ve found…”

+++

So, apparently, there’s a backdoor to heaven. Sam did not see that one coming.

It seems that, in a way, when you close a door you open a window. So when they had slammed close the hellgate in Wyoming, they had, unknowingly, opened a portal to heaven.

“So, what,” Dean asks skeptically, “we sneak up into heaven, grab Cas’s grace, gank Metatron, and bing, bang, boom, Bob’s your uncle?”

“Not exactly,” Crowley says, words chosen carefully, “there’s a few other...requirements. Numero uno, you can’t kill Metatron. Not until I say so. Because if you boys want to restore all your little angels to heaven, there’s a price. And a spell.”

“Don’t try to confuse us with your circumlocution,” Ana says harshly, speaking for the first time since Crowley started his explanation. “What do you want?”

“A deal, my dear,” Crowley says, saccharine smile dripping poison, “what else would you expect from a crossroads demon?”

“What do you want, Crowley?” Cas growls. Sam notices Dean squeeze Cas’s thigh, gently, an attempt to remind him of the necessity for civility. It wouldn’t do to upset Crowley now.

“I want my throne back. I want the angels to do their smiting shtick to that bitch who took it. And I want,” he sighs, “I want peace.”

“Sorry,” Kevin scoffs, “you want _what_?”

“Peace, genius,” Crowley drawls condescendingly, “I’m tired of fighting. If I do the angels a solid, and they do me one, we’re even.”

“And what solid will you be doing us?” Ana asks.

Crowley turns to Dean. “Remember that lovely witch of a mummy I was telling you about? Well, she taught me something about something.”

“A spell,” Cas clarifies.

“Yes, angel,” Crowley says, tone dulcet and indulgent, “a spell.”

+++

“Cas, wait! Wait!” Sam yells, flinging himself towards the two entwined figures of Dean and Cas. Dean is trying to restrain Cas, gripping his right arm, which holds the archangel blade in a tight, balled fist, but Dean’s weak, losing blood, and Sam is the only one strong enough to stop him. Ana is unconscious from a blow to the head. Metatron, for being only a scholar, put up a hell of a good fight. But, then again, he is an all-powerful supernatural being.

Who, incidentally, is now encircled by a ring of holy fire.

Sam slams into Cas and Dean, knocking them both to the ground and forcing the blade out of Cas’s infuriated grip. When Cas is hit by six-feet-four-inches of concentrated Winchester, he seems to snap out of his state of impassioned fury. His hands go to his face in shame.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” And then, desperately, “Dean! Dean, are you alright? Dean, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you. Dean!” His fingers grasp at the gash on Dean’s forehead desperately, and Sam isn’t sure if he’s trying to magically heal it or just trying to come to terms with having cut him with the blade.

“S’okay, Cas,” Dean says hazily, moving his fingers weakly to brush the tears collecting in the tears pooling in the corner of the other man’s eyes. “M’okay.”

Sam kneels next to his brother as well, and reaches out to Cas, holding a vial to his face and letting two tears fall into it.

“Look, I hate to break up the poignant moment of man-bonding ,” Crowley snarls from behind them, “but this is rather taxing and I’d appreciate if we could get on with it.”

He’s kneeling on the floor over a silver bowl with ancient enochian inscribed along the brim, chanting rhythmically.

Sam nods gravely, picking up Cas’s discarded blade. “Sorry about this,” he says, right before slashing Metatron’s throat. Sam cups his hands together, letting the blood flow into them, filling them up, brimming over, and then walks in three swift steps, closing the distance between him and Crowley and letting the blood in his hands spill into the bowl. Crowley’s chanting ramps up in intensity, hands extended over the bowl now. Sam is about to tip Cas’s tears into the mix when Dean’s voice comes panickedly from behind him. “Cas’s grace! Sam, his grace!”

“The tears, Moose!” Crowley shouts, usually calm voice tinged with anxiety as he takes a break from his chant. Sam dumps the tears into Metatron’s blood hastily, and the mixture turns a silvery color, like mercury in gaseous form, almost. “Quickly, the grace, the grace!” Crowley demands.

Sam turns to Metatron’s body, around which the fire has died. He throws himself towards it, hands patting it down, searching for a tiny vial of blue, like Anna’s grace. “I can’t find it!” Sam shouts, abject terror clear in his voice.

“Sammy,” Dean croaks, and Sam turns to find his brother making a circular motion around his neck with the hand that isn’t tightly clasped between Cas’s. Sam scrabbles at Metatron’s neck, finding the fine chain with the small, glowing vial. He can hear the spell hissing and popping behind him.

“Sam!” Crowley cries urgently.

Sam sprints back over to the corner and kneels before the bowl, hesitating for only a moment before he pours it. “Cas,” he says, not turning around, “are you sure you want this?” But when Cas mutters a scratchy assent, Sam knows that Cas isn’t the fallen angel he really wants to be asking. His eyes are fixed on Ana’s prone form as he pours Cas’s grace into the bowl.

The mixture turns bright white, and Crowley’s chant cuts off. It’s giving off a bright light, intensifying so rapidly that Sam throws an arm over his eyes. There’s a whooshing sound and then silence.

Sam opens his eyes.

Ana and Cas are standing now, stock-still and with eyes tight shut.

“Did it work?” Dean whispers.

Crowley ticks the spell components off his fingers. “Blood of defiler, check, tears of fallen angel, check, angel’s grace, check. It was all there.”

They wait, breath bated in the oppressive silence, surrounded by the aseptically clean interior of heaven. Sam breaths in and out, gaze focused on Ana.

And when her eyes open, they glow.

She and Cas seem to wake simultaneously, brilliant light seeming to emanate from every pore of their bodies. Cas immediately kneels beside Dean, healing him instantly.

Sam just stares at Ana. She looks different. Her eyes are clear and untroubled, her lips curved up in a slight smile. She looks as though she is blessed with glorious purpose, as Sam knows she truly is. This isn’t his Ana, the frail, newly-human woman who sings for no reason and likes to press up against him at night. This is the Ana that belongs to eons past. His Ana is gone.

She steps forward slowly, pressing a hand gently to his cheek. “Thank you,” she says, simply, “for everything.”

Sam can feel a lump forming in his throat, and viciously beats the tears down. “Take care of yourself,” is all he can manage to say, although his true meaning could not be contained within all the words in all the languages Ana has ever known. She is his whole life.

Was.

Ana nods, and smiles slightly in the same moment Cas reaches out to touch Dean’s face.

Sam is staring at the wall of the Dining Room in the Men of Letters bunker, the wall still covered in the plans for _Operation Angel_. And when he turns to look at Dean, he sees the same tear tracks etched into his brothers face that he’s sure are on his own.


	10. Forever Ours, Not Theirs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Maizie for all her hard work and putting up with my emotional torture and weird sentences and bad characterization through all of these months.  
> Thanks to all of you for sticking with me this long, and putting up with this story and its erratic publishing schedule.  
> This is it, friends. This is the end.

“Hey, Deano,” Charlie says, clambering awkwardly onto the roof of the Impala to join him. It’s been three weeks since Cas left. Halfway through week two Sam called Charlie, and told her what happened. She came immediately.

“Your highness,” Dean says, nodding an acknowledgement and handing her a beer from the near-empty six pack beside him as she sits down. She takes it without question, opening it with some difficulty. “You know,” he remarks, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink.”

Charlie takes a swig and makes a face. “That’s cuz I hate alcohol. Ick.” She sets the bottle down.

Dean hums, not feeling like using actual words. He’s been feeling like that a lot lately.

They sit in silence for a few minutes.

“Dean,” Charlie begins hesitantly, “how...I mean, are you—,”

“I’m fine,” Dean says sharply, cutting across her. But he’s not.

He thinks, maybe, that he’s always been in love with Cas. All the times he reached out to touch him under the pretext of comfort or assistance, it was just because he needed to touch him, to assure himself that Cas was real and there and his. Dean thought it was just because Cas was his best friend in the world aside from Sam. But now that he’s felt Cas pressed up against him as they sleep, felt Cas’s lips, wet and hot on his own, he knows. He knows that every time he told Cas “I need you,” what he was really saying was “I love you.”

But it’s no use crying over spilled milk or lost angels. So, for all intents and purposes, he’s fine.

He’s fine.

He feels Charlie’s hand, placed soothingly on the back of his neck, and leans into the touch. It’s almost maternal, and it’s soothing. He closes his eyes and sighs.

Charlie gasps.

“What?” Dean asks immediately, eyes snapping open and hand flying to where he normally has his gun shoved into his jeans, before realizing it isn’t there. There has been barely any supernatural activity lately, with heaven and hell’s new truce, so Dean had stopped carrying his gun.

As it turns out, though, he doesn’t need it, because on the ground before him stands Cas, still wearing the AC/DC tee shirt that Dean had lent him on the day, three weeks ago, when Cas disappeared from his life. His hair is ruffled, like he’s been in a strong wind, and bits of it are sticking up. He looks hesitant in a way he’s never looked as an angel, and his hand appears frozen in the act of reaching for Dean.

Charlie slides of the hood when neither of the two men moves, holding out her hand to Cas. “I’m Charlie. Nice to finally meet you, Castiel.”

“Thank you, Charlie,” Cas says, snapping out of his state of inertia. And Dean thinks that his words mean more than they seem to at face value.

Charlie nods and heads back into the bunker, glancing worriedly back at Dean.

There is a moment of silence before Cas speaks.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas.”

Cas smiles a little, climbing up to sit beside Dean.

“So, are you back?” Dean asks.

“Yes,” Cas says with certainty.

Dean smiles a little sadly as he looks over at Cas, dreading the answer to his next question. “For good?”

Cas turns to him, taking Dean’s hand and looking him directly in the eye in the piercing way he’d always had. “For good.”

Dean can feel the euphoria and relief building in his chest, but he suppresses it. This is too good to be true. “And Ana?” he asks, watching Cas’ face fall.

“I don’t,” Cas begins, and hesitates, “think...that she will return.”

Dean nods. Poor Sammy.

“But I think Sam will be okay,” Cas says, startling Dean. Cas knows him too well. “He is far stronger than I am. I could not bear the thought of being without you for all eternity.”

Dean finally lets the well of happiness that’s been mounting inside him fill up and spill over, grinning so wide that his face hurts and pulling Cas’s lips to his by balling his fists in the soft fabric of his own shirt. He feels Cas’s mouth against his and he knows; he knows that it’s all okay.

When they eventually pull apart, Dean whispers, “Welcome home.”

Cas’s responding smile is brighter than his lost grace ever was.


End file.
